


the flame that burns brightest

by kryptic_pear



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic_pear/pseuds/kryptic_pear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snippet of the ABC gang's light & dark interacting. Inspired by <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/on-the-tomb-of-lamarque-shall-a-barricade-rise">postcard</a>'s thoughts on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the flame that burns brightest

When Enjolras speaks his words light up the night, they fill the empty stomachs and make all who listen drunk with the wine of revolution. It has always been so, so long as Grantaire has known him. His speeches, at their best, pierce the veil that he so willingly pulls around himself with wine and spirits and form delusions of meaning before his eyes and, at their worst, fill him with unaccountable anger.

Paris burns with his words.

So it feels, for a time.

It is best, in Grantaire’s opinion, to feel nothing at all. So he does not listen, or if he does, he mocks. He turns his clever tongue to pointed jokes that make Enjolras look down at him from the mount of revelation with pity and scorn. But all the same, make him look down. 

Grantaire is happy to play the mocking satyr, the drunk, lascivious devotee of Dionysus. It is better that than to look upon Enjolras’ face and see the mark of his lover there. For France never leaves her loves living, never leaves them whole. As once she birthed her kings, as once she cradled the Revolution, as once she was lover to Napoleon.

And if one night he mouths the words and feels them scorch and burn his mouth for his own purpose, what of it? If he agrees to take a stand with Enjolras, just to turn the prophet’s head, what of it? For Enjolras has no love but France and his eyes are blind to all but her. And if it will quench his never-ending thirst, then a lie is surely worth it.

He tastes like the ash of the living coal he’s born on his tongue. His hair is spun gold, but feels coarse and wiry as true gold might feel. His skin burns as if with fever. And even in embrace he breathes life into the revolution. 

But even now, with Enjolras above him, slick with sweat and heavy with wine, he cannot be pulled down to Grantaire’s world. And even now, when his speech is laced with heavenly profanity and his plans are at their purest, simplest form on his tongue, he cannot bring Grantaire to see his vision.

Mortality yet tugs upon his soul, weighs upon his mind and when it is done Grantaire feels no more satisfied than any other night that ends with drinks and companionship. How he wishes it were not so. Wishes that the shape of the words ‘freedom’ and ‘revolution’ mapped out against his skin by a burning mouth would brand there. 

And when the morning dawns they are still the same.

And in his heart he knows they will still die.

Just like all of France’s burning bright children before them.


End file.
